


Pressure Points

by sahiya



Category: White Collar
Genre: F/M, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahiya/pseuds/sahiya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst thing about migraines, Sara had decided long ago, was that they made her stupid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressure Points

**Author's Note:**

  * For [veleda_k](https://archiveofourown.org/users/veleda_k/gifts).



> Thanks to Fuzzyboo for beta reading!

The worst thing about migraines, Sara had decided long ago, was not the pain. It wasn’t the nausea, either, or even the auras. Both of those were worse than the actual headache, but she could have dealt with them, powered through on sheer force of will. 

No, the worst part was that they made her _stupid_. 

She felt it starting to come on during her department meeting. It began - as always, since she was sixteen - with the feeling that something was wrong with her vision. She blinked a few times, hoping it would clear. When it didn’t, she reached for the blister pack of Imitrex she always kept in her bag. Quietly, she swallowed one with a sip from her water bottle. 

It was too late, though. The Imitrex might take the edge off, but nothing would stop the migraine altogether. By the time the meeting ended, the auras had started, blocking out patches of her vision, and so had the tingling and numbness in her fingers. She managed to duck out of a conversation with Winston Bosch before she made an idiot of herself and went upstairs to her office to collect her things. The rest of the day was going to be a wash, she thought with simultaneous resignation and frustration. Between the Imitrex and the headache, she'd be totally useless for anything except sleeping and staring blankly at a television.

She’d had things she’d wanted to do, too. She had a report to write about her previous case, and leads for her current one to follow-up on. Worst of all, there was no way she was going to be in any shape to keep the date she and Neal had for that night. 

She waited until she was in a taxi on her way back to Brooklyn before texting Neal. It took much longer than it should have; her fingers were clumsy on the touch-screen, and words she’d known how to spell since she was six suddenly deserted her. But finally she managed to type out, _I’m going home with a migraine. Don’t think tonight is going to work. I’m sorry._ Then she leaned her head back against the seat of the car and closed her eyes. 

Her phone pinged while they were on the bridge. _Don’t worry about tonight,_ Neal wrote. _Is there anything I can do to help?_

 _No, but thanks for asking,_ Sara replied. One of the few things that helped - or used to help, at least - was for someone to play with her hair and rub her head and neck. But it’d been years since Sara had had anyone to do that for her, and even if she had been willing to ask Neal to do it, her apartment was outside his radius. 

It took her two tries to enter the security code for her apartment correctly. Once inside, she breathed a sigh of relief. She’d started feeling vaguely queasy in the taxi, but she felt better now that she was home. She kicked off her shoes and changed into pajamas, then lowered all the blinds in her room until it was as dark as possible at midday. She took another Imitrex and drank a glass of water before lying down in her bed, curled up on the side where the pain was concentrated. Pressure sometimes helped. 

She slept for a couple hours, but when she woke the pain was still there - worse, in fact, and the nausea was bad enough that she had to lie still and breathe carefully for a couple minutes. She found herself blinking back tears of pain and frustration. Usually sleep and the Imitrex at least took the edge off, but they didn’t seem to be doing anything this time around. 

Her phone buzzed. Sara squinted at the screen. It was Neal. She bit her lip, struggling with herself. On the one hand, she didn’t really want to talk to _anyone_. On the other hand, she did kind of want to talk to Neal. Which made no sense, but Sara was past caring. 

She answered it. “Hey,” she said, hating the way her voice shook. 

“Hey,” Neal said, extra quietly. “I hope I didn’t wake you. I was just calling to see how you were.”

Sara pressed her lips together. “Not great,” she finally admitted. “It’s worse than usual. Sleeping didn’t help, neither did my pills.” Her throat felt tight again. Sara swallowed, determined not to start crying. 

Neal was quiet for a moment. “It sounds like you could use some help,” he said at last. “Why don’t I come over after work?”

Sara actually found herself wishing that were possible. She was in enough pain that she didn’t think she’d have any qualms about asking Neal to rub her head. “I’m outside your radius,” she replied. 

“Don’t worry about that,” Neal said. “Peter’s a good guy. If I tell him you’re sick, he’ll call it in to the Marshals.”

Despite herself, Sara smiled. “That radius is more theory than practice for you, isn’t it?”

“Are you complaining?”

“No,” she said. She winced. Her entire _face_ hurt, throbbing in time with her headache. “Yeah, Caffrey. I’d like that.”

“Okay,” he said, voice softening. “I’ll see you in a bit.”

Sara spent the next few hours trying to sleep, albeit with little success. It was better than being awake, though, so she managed to stay in a sort of gray-twilighty state until the sound of her front door opening woke her. She knew she’d locked it behind her, though she hadn’t put the alarm on - but of course, that wouldn’t stop Neal. She couldn’t even bring herself to be mad about him picking the lock, since it meant she didn’t have to get up to let him in. 

She heard him go into the kitchen and set a few things on the counter. Then he came into the bedroom. “Hey,” he said, softly. 

“Hey,” she returned, without opening her eyes. She listened to the rustle of clothing - Neal taking off his suit, she guessed - and then he slid into bed behind her. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close against his chest, and for a moment Sara could barely breathe. This felt more intimate than anything they had done so far - far more intimate than sex - and it had been a long time since anyone had touched her like this. Bryan certainly never had. No expectations, no desire, just . . . affection. 

Yes, _affection_. That was a nice, safe word for it. 

After a moment, he sat up against the headboard and wordlessly helped Sara roll onto her back and shift her head into his lap, so that it rested against his thigh, warm through the fabric of his boxers. He stroked his fingers through her hair, pulling it back, tugging lightly, then burying his fingers in it and rubbing small circles against her scalp. He worked his way down until he was cradling her head in his hands, fingers digging into the pressure points at the base of her skull. Sara winced a little, but the pain was already easing. Not vanishing, not completely, but definitely getting better. He used his thumbs to rub gently at her temples at the same time, and she made a wordless noise in the back of her throat. 

After a minute or two, he carefully lay her head back down on his thigh. Then he pressed against the very top of her head, before sliding his thumbs down between her eyes. He carefully stroked them upwards, above her brows, then slid his fingers down to rub her temples. Sara breathed slowly, in and out, and fell asleep. 

When she woke, the bedside lamp was on, throwing soft yellow light over the bed. She stirred, and Neal shifted beside her. He’d been reading, she saw as she rolled over. “Hey,” he said, looking down at her. “How’re you doing?”

Sara blinked. “Much better, actually.” A minor headache lingered, but the auras were gone and so was the nausea and the tingling. More than that, her head actually felt _clear_. “Thank you for - before. It was . . . it helped a lot.” 

Neal stroked a hand through her hair, not unlike he had while massaging her scalp. “Don’t mention it.”

She looked up at him. “How did you know what to do?” she asked, because she was sure she’d never told him. 

Neal looked away. “My mom had migraines,” he said, very quietly. “I did what used to help her.”

“Oh,” Sara said. She rolled over so that her head rested against Neal’s hip, and reached out under the covers to rest her hand on his knee. “Thank you,” she said again, and this time he didn’t answer. But his fingers, buried in her hair, drew patterns against her skin, and it was answer enough.

_Fin._


End file.
